


in the morning

by spikeface



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(both in worn levis, both in worn t-shirts, and i, in my corner, snarlin')</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the morning

**Author's Note:**

> One of those id-indulgent porn romps whose ending might be uplifting or depressing. You know the type. Stick with this one, it makes more sense eventually.
> 
> Thanks to green-postit for her usual magic.

Sickbay is still rubble as the Enterprise limps back to Earth, the screams of the dying dimmed to the murmurs of the injured. 

McCoy doesn't know how many hours he's been awake: he's exhausted and sore as hell and Jim is _still_ a mess of injuries from the Narada. The buzz of the regenerator is a distracting lullaby as Jim's bruises fade and the cuts melt away under McCoy's hands, the broken bones knitting together seamlessly as his overtaxed muscles ease.

Jim chatters the entire time, on a high of adrenaline and pain. 

Jim's too young to have saved the world. There are lines worn into his face that McCoy hadn't seen before the Kobayashi Maru, something brittle in the hunch of Jim's shoulders. But when McCoy steps back to fetch another hypo all he can see is the stupid kid who didn't leave him alone for three months after the shuttle ride, wormed his way into his life until he caved and called him a friend. 

Jim watches him avidly, looks like he's itching to move even though McCoy knows he's got to be exhausted. "Credit for 'em, Bones."

"You could have died."

Three years in and he knows it's stupid, but it's one of the great comforts in his life: warm pecan pie, the feel of a hypo in his hand, and wanting to deck Jim.

"I didn't."

"Not for lack of trying." McCoy resists jabbing Jim with a hypo, presses it gently against his pulse and squeezes the trigger.

Jim's answering laugh is rusted and tight, his exhaustion finally manifesting in its creak. McCoy snickers with him as he checks Jim down with his hands, not trusting his tired eyes. Jim is uncharacteristically still, tense even though McCoy has given him a sedative. 

He pushes McCoy's hands away. "Bones."

"Yeah, kid?"

Jim grabs his face and kisses him.

He tastes like sour fear and ship grit, smears his blood on McCoy's face and scratches his cheeks with his stubble. Jim's lips are soft and generous, tongue demanding. McCoy responds without thinking, licks that tantalizing gap between Jim's teeth, nips his bottom lip. Jim jumps at that, moans, bats his nose into McCoy's face until it's McCoy's bottom lip between his teeth. 

Jim bites down, rakes along the inside of McCoy's lip until he holds it between the edges of his teeth. McCoy should be pushing away now, can feel his lip bruise and burn, but his muscles feel like they've been dipped in liquid nitrogen, like they'll shatter if he twitches.

It's Jim who pulls away, wipes at his wet mouth. "Wanted to do that for ages."

And then he's gone.

McCoy helps three more people and goes into the wreck that used to be Puri's office and kicks at the broken desk until pain jolts up his leg before he thinks but never says: _so why didn't you?_

\+ + +

McCoy is a genius, and on some days, he knows it.

It's not because he saves the world, or because he speaks three-dozen languages in his sleep. He can't navigate a starship, memorize an encyclopedia, or fix a warp core in a galactic gale, but after three months of research, endless hours in the lab, and one last burst of stims and experiments, he's got an apparatus that will allow the first Hortas onto a Starship.

McCoy stares at the results in the chaos of his office, boards covered in writing because that's how McCoy thinks, research journals sprawled everywhere because McCoy needs to hold them to compare, can't deal with everything packed into one PADD. He's jittery with the rush of accomplishment, so heady it feels like victory. It's the stims, too, going to keep him up for hours even though he's been holed up in here so long he should be dead on his feet.

Coming out of the office feels like leaving hibernation, everything glossy with new life and color. 

He could stand a toast, one of Chapel's rare girlish grins or a slap on the back from M'Benga. McCoy's never been particularly good at celebrating, always liked it best when he had other people to do it for him. There's alcohol in his room, but Jim's got Saurian brandy stashed in his shelves and he's been McCoy's go to man for his rare celebrations since he'd stumbled off the shuttle four years ago. Jim can make merry for a dozen people, let alone two.

It's the middle of Beta shift, which means Jim's off duty. He's probably wandering the halls, getting to know his people with that obsessive friendliness of his. The crew whips by him in the halls in their usual bureaucratic rush. McCoy's not a people person but he wants to shake them until they notice what's he done. He's bubbling with excitement, spilling out the seams.

He finds Jim near his room looking harried and sharp around the edges: the way he gets after even the most successful missions. McCoy hates it when Jim's stress gets bad enough to show, but at least it means the man will be grateful for a drink. "Jim!"

Jim spins around then freezes as recognition sets in. "McCoy."

"You owe me booze," he greets, takes Jim by the elbow.

"How do you figure?" Jim grudgingly lets himself be led to his quarters.

"I've revolutionized the Federation's S.O.P for 'fleet Hortas," he explains as Jim keys them in. "Last time you signed a treaty you went through my favorite bourbon, so say goodbye to your brandy."

"I see." Jim settles at that, relaxing into his usual swagger as he pours for them both. McCoy perches against the table in the living room, too keyed up to sit. Jim offers him a glass and a toast: "To the best doctor in the fleet."

"And don't you forget it." 

McCoy shouldn't be drinking while the stims are still in his system, but he's not on shift for a while and according to the ship's quiet, the last landing party returned safely. He's got nothing to do but enjoy the high of success, and he grins at the way it burns down his throat.

Jim's expression stutters. "You look different when you smile."

McCoy laughs. "Like I'm smiling, I bet."

Jim downs his brandy and then watches him, still and anticipatory. The last time McCoy saw that look directed at him his lip had split under the firm pressure of Jim's teeth. McCoy swallows his drink past the lump of memory in his throat. He wipes his mouth compulsively after, remembers the swipe of Jim's hand, the taste of Jim's blood, Jim's lips. 

Jim leans forward, takes the glass from his hand, and dumps them unceremoniously to the side. There's a look on his face McCoy can't quite parse. "What's—"

Jim pushes him flat back into the couch, follows him down on top of him. McCoy tries to roll up but Jim's too determined; he straddles McCoy's legs and slides his hands under McCoy's jaw, holds his head still. It's the same as a year ago, his thumbs cold under McCoy's chin and palms warm against his neck. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Figure it out." Jim leans back, and the light falls hard on him.

McCoy knows half the crew watches Jim hungrily, just like half the cadets had drooled when he walked by. They've had twenty-three diplomatic missions in their first year and every princess they met wanted to be introduced. They swooned over the war hero with the perfect face, called him an alien Adonis when they talked about him. McCoy knows better: in four years of friendship and surgery he's catalogued dozens of imperfections. But when Jim smiles with his whole face, McCoy can't help but smile back.

And then Jim bends down to _lick_ up McCoy's cheek, one long wet swathe of tongue up to his eyelids. McCoy shoves at him but he's laughing from his belly, feels better than he has in years, high off of more than the caffeine still buzzing through his veins.

"Fucker." He can't stop laughing. 

Jim's infectious, a disease of the mind. His hands are everywhere, rougher than McCoy remembers as they skim under his shirts, but maybe that's because he's never had the time to feel them. Jim's hands have dragged him out of alien prisons and exploding ships, but it was never like this: exploratory, reverent. He snaps open McCoy’s pants, flattens his hand against the outline of McCoy’s cock.

McCoy stands a few seconds of the teasing, the thin layer of his briefs just enough to hold back the real heat of Jim's hand. But this tease has been going on forever, that kiss percolating through his blood for far too long. 

McCoy's had enough. 

He bucks up, shoves his pants and briefs down to his thighs, and wraps his fingers around Jim's over his cock. Jim chuckles and leans forward, pressing his forehead against McCoy's, his free hand curling around McCoy's neck and petting the short hairs there. 

"You're dying for this, aren't you?" Jim smiles.

Jim is too, the outline of his cock clear against his strained pants. McCoy runs his thumbs along the bulge, presses the heel of his hand just enough to tantalize. He needs to watch Jim lose it like he has.

Instead Jim plays dirty, eyes serious and earnest. "I want to see you."

McCoy recognized long ago that he can only rarely resist orders from Jim, but never a plea. He shucks his pants and briefs as he toes off his boots and pulls both his shirts off at once. Jim's hands follow the lines of his torso as he does, surprisingly knowing. They veer off before they tickle, circle his nipples just once, just the right pressure to make them harden. How much has Jim thought about this, studied McCoy when he didn't realize? 

McCoy spreads his legs unconsciously at the thought, cock twitching. Jim's a frighteningly good judge of character, and researches obsessively when he's on the hunt. He could have been doing it this whole time—watching, studying, waiting, all this fucking _waiting_. 

He grabs the hem of Jim's shirt but Jim takes his wrists to stop him, head cocked. "You're so... healthy."

"What were you expecting?"

Shrugging, Jim raises his eyebrows and stares up under his lashes in that way that makes him look boyish. "Didn't really think about it."

McCoy snorts. "How the hell do you manage diplomacy when you're such a shit liar?"

Jim grins and grabs McCoy's cock, runs from base to tip and thumbs the pre-come. It's just this side of rough, his calluses scraping along McCoy's veins. McCoy bucks, moans. " _That_ explains everything."

Jim leans over him, laughing. "You're a real mouthy fuck, you know that?"

"So do something about it." Bold from the stims and the blood in his cock, McCoy practically tears the zipper on Jim's pants and wrestles Jim's cock out of his underwear. It's hot and heavy in his hand, begs to be jacked and sucked.

"Oh, I intend to." Jim pushes McCoy's hand away and jerks himself off, slow and lazy like he wants to show off more than he wants to get off. McCoy wants to snap but his mouth waters instead, tongue flicking out over his lips at the wet slit, the weight of it.

"Fuck you," McCoy grumbles—begs.

Jim slides down his body, scrapes up his thighs, and leans in close enough that McCoy can feel his hot breath on his cock. "First things first."

McCoy trusts Jim, more than anyone else in this universe. It was easy enough to put his life in Jim's hands, back when he was a miserable divorcé who'd killed his father, even easier when Nero's ship tried to blast them out of the sky. Now, he's got those rough, dirty hands around his balls, fondling and squeezing. Jim stares at him like he's figuring something out.

McCoy's never been so hard in his life.

Jim's mean about it, like McCoy expected, only gives him the rasp of tongue and lips and the occasional snag of tooth. Jim licks his dick like he'd licked his face, long and arresting. His free hand wanders up and down McCoy's cock but it's nowhere near enough, nothing like the tight suction McCoy's dying for, knows Jim could dole out in a heartbeat with those lips of his. The worst is that McCoy can't even get angry: he snaps enough to reach out, face and body twisting, but Jim dances away, shifts McCoy's balls in his hands pointedly.

"You fucking cheater." Half his words are eaten by his groans.

Jim meanders down McCoy's dick with his tongue, jacks the base just to fuck with him. "Now you sound like Spock."

"You suck his dick like this too?"

Jim sucks impossibly tight for that, leaves McCoy scrabbling through his short hair for a grip. Jim bats his hands away, tongues at the slit of his cock and flicks his tongue over the sensitive underside until McCoy is _whining_ , swearing, hips jabbering under the weight of Jim's forearms. "Come _on_ , dammit," he snaps, knows Jim will hear the affection in it. There are a lot of people in the universe who rile McCoy, but no one has ever made him love it like Jim.

Jim's eyes are shining, pre-come smeared against his lips. "Ask nicely."

It's getting harder to string his thoughts together, to say anything that isn't a curse or Jim's name or a demand for more. McCoy's never asked nicely for anything his entire life, even when his dick wasn't tantalizing centimeters from Jim's tight throat. His cock is drenched with Jim's spit and his own pre-come is dripping down to the sweat of his balls, but Jim's fingers still feel dry against him, knuckles against his prostate, pressed hard enough to make his nerves ripple right up his spine—hard enough that it hurts, just right. McCoy's desperate to come—stupid with it—feels ready to agree to anything Jim could demand.

"Say it," Jim mouths around his cock, and the roll of his teeth against McCoy's skin undoes him.

" _Please,_ " he grits out, just as Jim swallows, laps against the underside of the head and sucks so hard McCoy's orgasm is ripped right out of him.

When Jim pulls off—lips smacking obscenely—his smile is deliriously diabolical. "The things I'm going to do to you."

McCoy puts a hand on Jim's chest and pushes slightly, but Jim doesn't budge. His cock jumps at that, something ticklish and giddy furling in his gut. "You'll do them on the bed if you know what's good for you."

Jim hustles him into the bedroom and tumbles him onto the bed with typical Jim enthusiasm, hands everywhere. Then he spends a minute cursing as he fumbles for the lube. McCoy makes himself comfortable on the bed, one hand behind his head, jerking himself off with the other lazily as his dick works itself up again. There's a small part of him that's still reeling at how fast everything has come undone, but the rest of him is enjoying the buzz of the stims, of accomplishment, of his hand on his cock. Jim is reassuringly normal, digging through his things with abandon, muttering.

He likes watching Jim go stupid with happiness. Jim's done as many dumb things in his life as McCoy, and like McCoy he's done them because he was frustrated or angry or plain old miserable. Jim's smile's lopsided now—grin on one side and the other just knowing, eyebrows raised and eyes bright as he settles between McCoy's legs.

"How do you want it?" Jim asks as he circles McCoy's hole with his finger. He pushes in, two at a time and fast enough to make McCoy hiss. Jim slows but doesn't pull away, scissors and stretches until McCoy leans back on his elbows, raises his leg a little.

"Tell me," Jim insists, jabbing hard against his prostate. McCoy swears; it's the sharpness that does it. It's not pain, exactly—he's too turned on for that—just a spike in sensation, foreign and familiar at the same time. He's felt it in jolts before with other people, never thought to seek it out. Of course Jim would suddenly demand that he face it, would be right there and grinning with his goddamn fingers in McCoy's ass while he did.

"Like that," he manages.

Jim licks his lips. "I fucking knew it."

McCoy's seen his fair share of embarrassing sex-related injuries. Jim's words shouldn't be anything worth blushing over, but McCoy's always preferred to help others with their issues. Here, he feels out of place, not even exactly sure what secret he's just shared but Jim's smiling like he's figured it out and it's jarring, worse than the fact that he's naked and Jim's got all his clothes on. 

"C'mere."

Jim goes down easy enough, wraps his slick fingers around McCoy's cock again, his own dick hard and reassuring against McCoy's hip. It's only when McCoy starts to pull his shirt up that he gets ornery. He grabs McCoy's hands, pins them above his head with a grip hard enough that McCoy would jerk away if it weren't the hottest goddamn thing Jim'd ever done. "I'm gonna fuck you just like this, McCoy."

"Fuck," he mutters, thrusting up against Jim's stomach. It shouldn't be as good as it is, the uniform and his last name growled out like that, Jim's hands hard and pinning. 

A year ago had been his surest hint: the pinch of Jim's teeth, his lip bleeding under them. But Jim's always been a bit peculiar like that, under the easygoing charm; McCoy'd watched Jim fret and pine and flit around for three years before that, never saw him so settled as when he took up the captain's chair, totally in control. The shock is that _McCoy_ loves it, can't get enough of it, so heady with it he's lost even the words to curse when Jim pushes in, no finesse except in his smile.

The most they've ever had before is that fucking kiss—not even a drunken blowjob like any self-respecting college experimenter. McCoy had wondered sometimes if that was it, some stupid experiment because Jim had fixated on his lips like the time he got obsessed with learning Orion or figuring out Uhura's first name. It was a blip, nothing they'd ever mentioned again. McCoy reels at how fast everything's turned on its head, that now instead of jerking off to that rasp of teeth when he's too tired to think about what it means, he's got this: Jim balls deep inside him and holding hard enough to bruise, biting at his neck and shoulders with a frenzy, like he's been stopping this dam for years.

McCoy pulls him in for another kiss, wraps his legs around Jim's torso and closes his eyes. Jim kisses like not a minute's gone by since the last time, that same seductive pull, the knife's edge of his teeth against McCoy's lips. Jim's so goddamn good at it, has McCoy tasting every perfect jab in his throat, hot enough to steal his breath.

Then Jim freezes. 

"Get out. _Now_."

McCoy frowns at Jim's tone, can't make sense of what he means, why he suddenly sounds so cold. He opens his eyes, and his first thought is that he must have OD'ed on the stims, because he's seeing double.

" _Now_ , asshole," Jim—the new Jim—repeats. He has a knife at Jim's throat, hand tangled in his hair. Jim's dick is still in him, pressing hot against his prostate. It's torturous and so goddamn perfect, pressing right against an ache McCoy's had for years. He wants to move, wants Jim to move, and the spike of fear is only making it worse, succulent and seductive.

The Jim who's fucking him—his Jim—smiles with all his teeth, says low just for McCoy, "But I'm not done yet."

McCoy has to fight to understand what Jim means, all his blood refusing to percolate his brain. Jim won't stop thrusting, slow and staccato because of the knife at his neck. McCoy wants Jim to keep fucking him with that bruising force that rattles his bones. He makes himself focus on the man with the knife. "Jim?"

The new Jim looks alien with anger, twisted with it. "Bones, it's me."

It's the "Bones" that does it. The Kirk inside him called him "McCoy." 

Fuck.

He's still stretched tight around Kirk's cock, got his legs wrapped around his back, his hands curled around his biceps. He swallows when the realization sinks in. "Get away from me."

"Is that really what you want?" Kirk takes McCoy's cock in his hand, slides his thumb up the underside and starts to jerk, that perfect twist in his grip again that has McCoy coming apart, clenching around his cock and thrusting up into his hand blindly. "Because it feels like you want this—my cock in your ass, my hand on your dick. You love this, don't you, McCoy?"

Jesus, he does.

Jim tightens with the knife. "Get _off_ of him before I slice you open."

Kirk smirks. "I think if you wanted me off I'd be bleeding out on the floor by now."

The knife doesn't move.

"And I think _Bones_ here is a big boy, and could kick me off if he wanted."

McCoy hasn't moved.

"You really ought to feel him, _Jim_. He's got the tightest ass I've fucked in years—acts like he's been gagging for it all that time. And you have, haven't you, McCoy? You've been waiting for this, waiting just for _me_." Another thrust, one long smooth slide that strikes a fever in McCoy's blood, makes him arch despite himself. 

"Look at that, Jim. You can barely see the green, his eyes are so dilated—if I bit him he'd fucking come."

McCoy watches, helpless and fascinated, as Jim's tongue darts out to wet his lips, the hint of teeth behind them.

"He likes being bitten—makes noise like he's getting whipped, but I bet if you tied him down and sucked hard enough you could make him come just from that. Oh, fuck, he loves the thought of that." Kirk grunts. "You need to feel him, Jim."

Jim's expression is utterly flat. "Get off of him."

Kirk smiles and twists his hips as he thrusts again. McCoy can't help the groan. Jim is still frozen, but McCoy's cock is dripping pre-come all over his stomach and he hasn't stopped gripping Kirk like there's no tomorrow. Kirk runs the rough pad of his thumb along McCoy's mouth. He's staring right at McCoy: focused, familiar.

"Why? So you can take my place?"

Jim's expression darkens ferally. He pulls the knife away, takes Kirk with him. Kirk is dumped on the floor with a startled grunt, the shock of him being ripped from McCoy's body savage as phaser fire.

Jim turns to McCoy, something akin to sadness in his eyes. "Bones?"

McCoy says the only thing he can: "I thought he was you."

Jim weighs just as much as Kirk, but when he settles on top of McCoy it’s somehow harder to breathe. Jim’s hands are smoother but more searching, the beam of his focus more searing. He studies McCoy like he’ll be tested on every detail of his anatomy, touches him everywhere like his fingerprints are tattoos. 

When Jim looks him in the eye again he looks painfully young. He asks low, "Did he hurt you?"

"No," McCoy replies firmly. Jim still doesn't look convinced, flicking back to glare at Kirk like he's waiting for an attack.

"He liked it," Kirk says from the floor, but he's got the sense not to push it.

McCoy watches Jim try to bottle the storm and fail, eyes narrowing and fists clenching. 

Glancing worriedly at Kirk, McCoy tries: "Jim—"

Jim leans back over McCoy protectively, Kirk disappearing behind him. His fingers slip over McCoy's throat as if testing Kirk's words and press tentatively on the artery. Jim's eyes widen when McCoy swallows—skims over his Adam's apple as it bobs. Kirk is lurking somewhere behind him, lazily jerking off, but all McCoy can focus on is the rasp of Jim's fingertips, every whorl imprinted into his skin.

McCoy wants so much more he doesn't even know where to begin.

Jim glares at Kirk before he completely covers McCoy's body with his—shields him from Kirk's laser stare. Jim bends until he can breathe against McCoy's mouth. His face is shadowed with the light behind him, but McCoy can make out the ridges of his face, the unearthly sheen of his eyes, focused and intent and utterly serious.

"Bones," he says, rough as the stubble on his face. He's hunched over McCoy's head, hands in his hair, on his throat, skims over the bite marks beginning to redden on his skin.

“They’re as tasty as they look,” McCoy hears Kirk say. He sounds smug.

Jim runs his fingers along the curve of McCoy's mouth, just once, and then he leans down. His lips are strangely unfamiliar, all the curves McCoy's memorized alien on his tongue. McCoy's drowning in it, reaches up to pull Jim down for another kiss, sucks his lower lip the same way he did a year before. 

Then Jim pounces.

He's all teeth this time, tearing into McCoy's lips feverishly, his eyes open and glazed. He pushes McCoy flat against the bed, one hand coming up to fist in his hair. He fucks McCoy's mouth with his tongue, panting and urgent, like he wants to crawl inside and erase all traces of Kirk. It's overwhelming—has McCoy thrusting aimlessly—the cool air teasing against his spit wet cock.

Jim pulls away like he's tearing off a bandage, one stinging rip away from McCoy's lips. He touches them again almost immediately. "Fuck, Bones, do you have any idea—"

"Oh, he _does_ ," McCoy hears Kirk say, already back on the bed, shirt stripped off his tight, scarred chest. "So do I."

" _Back off_ ," Jim snaps over his shoulder, twists so that McCoy can briefly see Kirk again.

Kirk raises his hands in surrender and then shrugs, unperturbed. He leans back, his hand dropping to his cock and his gaze on McCoy's split lip. "Bite him. I know you want to. His neck's got a direct line to his dick."

Jim turns back, runs his hands over McCoy's face distractingly. "Fuck, Bones, the things I want to do to you."

"So what are you waiting for?" It's Kirk's voice, but his thoughts. Maybe it's the stims, the adrenaline; it feels like Kirk fucked the words out of him—makes him squirm under Jim's heavy, hot body.

Jim's eyes go wide with shock for a second, before narrowing to his game face, the one he reserves for Klingons and chess games with Spock.

"I want to fuck your face," Jim admits. He runs a hand through his hair. " _Fuck_ — open up already."

McCoy has to hold his breath and bite his lip to stop himself from coming right there. 

He starts tearing at Jim's fly, shucks his pants off him and pulls more carefully at his underwear until he has Jim's thick cock in his fist. Jim shivers when McCoy slicks his fingers in the pre-come oozing from the tip, licks it off his fingers and hums at the taste. Jim promptly pins him to the bed again as he kneels by McCoy's shoulders, cupping McCoy's head. 

"Fuck, Bones," Jim whispers harshly. McCoy hears the headboard creak as Jim grips it, but the rest of his attention is devoted to Jim's cock, the salty taste and soap-clean skin, the heady smell. For a moment McCoy feels perfectly filled, stretched and held and wanted. It's beyond sexual; he feels unwrapped, undone.

He needs more.

And that's exactly when Kirk sneaks back onto the bed, spreads McCoy's legs wide, and pushes back in. 

McCoy clenches around Kirk and groans around Jim's dick, losing his focus immediately as he tenses against the raw burn of Kirk's cock, prodding at all the seared spots inside him, balls hot against the skin of his ass. It's too much, has him pushing at Jim's hips until he can gasp against the drive of Kirk's cock.

Jim starts petting him, soft and gentle, almost drowned out by the ramming in his ass. McCoy nuzzles up into Jim's hand, wanting more but liking this too, the steady reassurance of Jim's fingers combing through his hair.

"Aren't you two a pretty fucking picture." Kirk snaps his hips sharply and McCoy jumps forward, moaning and swallowing around Jim's cock, eyes shut tight.

"Fuck," he hears Jim murmur. It sounds like revelation. McCoy hopes it is, gropes Jim's ass to urge him closer until Jim's hands settle in his hair. He groans his encouragement as Jim starts to thrust, laves Jim's cock as it fucks his throat open. It's been a while since he's swallowed dick, long enough that the flared head has him gagging, but he doesn't care. He needs this, doesn't know how he went so long without it.

Kirk is drilling into him, slams into his prostate hard enough to make McCoy flinch. He tries to push back for more, but Kirk holds him still and makes him take every inch; McCoy would be furious if he weren't so busy getting off on it. He's not going to sit for a week but he wants more, needs it more than he needs to breathe. Concentration is impossible, can't keep up with Jim's cock thrusting in his mouth. He moans around Jim's cock, the sound broken up into the jackhammer rhythm of Kirk's thrusts.

Jim pulls out to let him breathe, and McCoy can feel his eyes on him as he mouths Jim's balls, rolling their weight on his tongue. Jim's fingers comb through his hair, petting and encouraging. The same hands are iron on his hips, the same balls smacking into the sensitive skin around his hole.

"You should see how you look right now," Jim says low, tilting McCoy's head up until he can look him in the eye. McCoy pictures himself, splayed and drooling, ass red and muscles shivering, panting with the need for more, stuffed from both ends. Even his most delusional jerkoff fantasies hadn't been like this: never two Jims, never even one who could fuck him like this. His thighs are wet with Kirk's sweat, his hole hot and burning and stabbed with pleasure.

"Don't you fucking stop," he orders. He reaches awkwardly for Jim, can't quite keep himself steady with Kirk pounding into him. Jim thrusts back into his mouth, and McCoy grabs his thighs to pull him in again. 

Kirk drives in hard, pulls McCoy back onto his dick faster than he can push back onto him. He figures Kirk is doing it at least half to annoy Jim, because McCoy can barely concentrate on Jim's dick like this, but then Jim slowly—god, so slowly—leans forward and forces his cock down McCoy's struggling throat.

He's incoherent almost as soon as they start thrusting in tandem, filling him up to the brim, holding him still and making him take it from both ends. They only thing he can do is writhe and pull them closer as he struggles not to give it into it too quickly. He doesn't want to come, doesn't want to end this, wants to stay lost in the heady haze of desire that's gathering in him with every heavy thrust, with every choked breath that brings the smell of Jim, the taste of him on his tongue and the feel of him imprinted on his insides.

It's Jim who comes first, holding McCoy still, filling him thickly. McCoy's too spit-messy and fucked to coordinate his throat, but he swallows as much as he can, licks at Jim's softening cock until he pulls away. He's still so close to coming, needs it more than ever with the taste of Jim's come on his tongue, that exact same cock still in his ass.

Kirk pulls out and lets go, as Jim rolls off his shoulders and kneels at his side. McCoy stares up at the doubled image of Jim and Kirk and feels delirious.

Jim takes hold of him, slithers down to his hips and sits between his thighs, eyes and teeth shining. Kirk shuffles up by his head, hand on his cock as he starts to jerk off in front of McCoy's face. McCoy leans up, wanting that perfect cock in his mouth—just to touch it, anything. But Kirk pulls him back down to the mattress by his hair, grips there to settle him. Then he goes back to his cock, teasing around the head, long pulls along the shaft, eyes on McCoy.

The scrape of tongue on his own cock makes him jump, cut off by Jim's hands branding his hips. He's licking McCoy's cock so fucking carefully, like he's got all the time in the world. Jim has lips made for sucking cock, puffy and generous and shockingly pink wrapped around the head of his dick, pox-marked cheeks hollowing with suction, eyes glued to McCoy's. The shock of Jim's eyes alone is enough to make him come, and when Jim eases his cock down his throat it's almost too much. 

It's the same as before—the soft lips, the hot throat, the utter concentration—and painfully different, the bone-deep knowledge of him so obvious McCoy doesn't know how he missed it before. One of Jim's hands moves to his balls, cups warm around them, and it's so good McCoy's squirming, twisting the sheets in his fists, almost tearing them, stares up at Kirk's cock and waits for the spray of his come, both of their orgasms so close he can taste it.

"Come on, Jim," he mutters, not sure who he means. It's so easy this time, easier than with Kirk the first go round, easier than he'd ever thought possible in the past year. "Come on, come _on_ you goddamn bastard, please, _please_ , Jim, I need—please." Jim is torturing him, lips teasing the flare at the head of his cock and one hand rolling his balls so perfectly. The other is wrapped like a vise around the base of his dick. Kirk's cock is wet and dripping, fat drops of come rolling off the tip and onto McCoy's cheek. He wants to smear them off and taste them, can't convince his hands to stop clenching the sheets.

"He likes our fingers in him," Kirk says above him. "Don't you, McCoy?"

"Shut up," Jim snarls, and laps at the pre-come dripping from McCoy's cock, fingers sliding in and crooking until everything is hot and swollen, until he's blindly snapping his hips up into Jim's face. Jim won't be rushed, holds McCoy down and sucks brutally. 

Kirk's hand above him has gone rapid and erratic. He's so close McCoy can see it, needs it worse than he needs his own orgasm.

"What do you want, Bones?" Jim asks.

"You," McCoy mumbles, and means both of them.

Jim pushes into him just as Kirk finally comes, strings of hot semen painted all over his face. McCoy opens his mouth for it, groans helplessly at Jim's cock up his ass, so far McCoy can feel it in his throat.

Kirk won't stop touching McCoy's face after he's come, sweeps through the semen as it drips down his cheek, one finger under his chin to keep his head up and looking at Kirk.

"You look so fucking good." Kirk slips two semen-salty fingers into his mouth; McCoy sucks automatically. "Fuck."

McCoy can feel himself beginning to lose it, his muscles relaxing as orgasm loses its urgency, every zing of pain and pleasure somehow closer and more distant. His thighs ease, bend further against his chest, and Jim grunts as he sinks in further, bottoming out with each rough stroke. McCoy jolts on the bed, back rubbed raw against the rucked up sheets.

Kirk keeps feeding him come, smears it over his tongue and rings it over his lips, watches him lick it off with heavy-lidded eyes. Even after it's gone, he keeps staring at McCoy's face, pupils blown wide under the fan of his eyelashes.

"What?" McCoy gasps.

"You like this," Kirk says, slightly shocked. "You love having my dick in you."

McCoy shrugs. “I’ll live.”

Kirk melts back into his smile again. He reaches down, brushes teasingly over McCoy's cock and balls, cold fingers against the abraded skin stretched around Jim's cock. Jim's hips stutter just as Kirk shoves his fingers inside, but McCoy doesn't care. He hooks his legs tighter around Jim's back, one hand pulling Kirk closer and the other reaching for his own cock. He curses when Kirk stops him, grabs him and pins him down as he fingers him harder. 

McCoy's eyes are squeezed shut, the drumming of his blood so noisy he barely hears one of them mutter, "You can't tell me he doesn't want more."

"Fuck off," Jim snarls.

"Afraid he'll like my dick more?"

McCoy looks to Jim when there's only silence, all motion stopped, finds Jim's entire body has narrowed predatorily, as glazed with want as McCoy is. "Bones?"

McCoy nods. 

His lips go dry almost immediately, adrenaline galloping through him as he sits up and registers what he's agreeing to. Kirk strokes his hips, nips at the back of his neck. His cock is rubbing against the crease of his ass, Jim's pressed against the divot above his hip.

McCoy doesn't look away, says to Jim, "You."

Kirk laughs against his neck, sucks at the vertebra on the top of his spine. "Good. I want your hole stretched around his dick, nice and tight for when I fuck you open."

McCoy resists the pull of Kirk's words, won't give in until Jim does. He doesn't want to argue, can't verbalize why he needs this.

Jim nods, earnest and serious like this is something more than a double fuck, the kind of stupid thing he hasn't thought about since med school. Warnings and worries race up and are discarded just as quickly. He wants this—needs it—and Jim needs it, too, if the tremor in his hands is anything to go by. Most people shake when they're nervous or frightened; Jim shakes when there's something else skulking beneath the surface, something hungry.

Jim slides in easily, his hole already stretched and slick with lube and come. It still feels good, burning just enough to sweeten it. Jim thrusts in to the hilt, hips jumping only a little. Kirk sucks another bruise in McCoy's neck, so hard McCoy's trapped between pulling away and leaning in, distracted by the tickle of Jim's hair against his lips and the dent of Jim's fingers against his asscheeks, sinking in and pulling wide. He curses, spreads his legs, anticipating zinging up his back, prickling along his skin.

Kirk's there almost immediately, but then he takes his time, rubbing his fingers along the rim of McCoy's asshole, slips in almost carelessly. It's tight, almost too tight. McCoy can't picture both of them inside him, even though he knows it's possible, knows it's going to happen. Jim never backs down, and he's not sure Kirk even knows how.

One finger becomes two, slicked with more lube. McCoy realizes dazedly that Kirk is humming, something flat and tuneless and so smug McCoy would smack him if he weren't too busy pushing back against the fingers, the throbbing cock inside him. Jim curses every time McCoy's cock slaps across his stomach and McCoy loves it, loves being the one to watch Jim go violent with pleasure. His lip's curled in a half snarl, eyes narrowed and focused. McCoy realizes he's close to coming and stops moving, doesn't want it to end before it's even started. Kirk slips the head of his cock inside, pushes in as McCoy stills.

For a moment McCoy's sure it's impossible, the first time he's ever been daunted by anything Jim has to offer. There's too much of him, the same cock mirrored inside of him. Kirk's cock's barely in and he's already pulled dangerously thin, like old cloth about to tear.

"Dammit," he hisses through gritted teeth, squeezing Jim's shoulders as he struggles to adjust.

"Easy," Jim warns.

Kirk pushes in harder, forces a pained grunt from McCoy's throat.

"Are you deaf, asshole? Hold your fucking horses."

Kirk snorts, gritting his teeth hard enough that McCoy can hear his jaw crack, but he stills. His cock still feels like it's ripping McCoy apart, stretching him wide enough to burst, but Jim is pouring dirty nonsense in his ear, stroking his cock distractingly. "That's it, Bones, easy, relax for me. I got you, I got you. God, you're so fucking tight around my cock, I want to see you lose it so bad. You just got to let us in, nice and slow—I'm gonna have you beg for it, Bones, you're gonna forget your own fucking _name_."

He's half lost it already, stuck somewhere between Bones and McCoy and _Jim_ , the only name he wants to remember. Jim's hand slides to his chest and settles over his heart, helps him concentrate on his heartbeat, on the echoing thumps in the palm of Jim's hand. He feels like he's been hyposprayed with something, drugged, all his senses slowly going under, skin taut as an Argelian drum. "Do it."

"Slow," Jim orders. McCoy has no idea if Kirk's obeying, so strung out on sensation that he can't decide if he's hyperventilating or forgot to breathe entirely. Jim and Kirk start to blur, perfect twins of each other except where they differ—the calluses on Kirk's hands, the sharpness of Jim's teeth. Their cocks are identical, the same rhythm stamped into them—into him. 

He has no idea how long he rides their cocks, if he even manages anything more than lowing and moaning. Kirk fucks like he wants to rearrange McCoy's ribs with his cock, Jim with a studied eagerness, sucking on McCoy's lips until they're hot and swollen as the spot inside him. Kirk tangles his fingers in McCoy's hair, yanks his head back and tongue fucks him messily while Jim bites stubbled bruises into the underside of his jaw. Both of them jack him off mercilessly, hands lubed only with sweat and pre-come, until he comes with a buzzing in his ears, blurred between them for one dizzying moment.

He's drifting when they come, stretched between them: Jim pulls his head close, hands tangled in McCoy's hair; Kirk is a vice around his hips, face pressed close into his back, the curve of his snarl pressed against his skin. They both let go when he collapses, Jim following soon after. His chest heaves in sync with Kirk's, but Kirk stays upright, staring down at McCoy. He cups McCoy's face, turns him gently towards him, and McCoy can't help the rush of affection. He leaves the logic to Spock, the responsibility to Jim. Empathy has always been McCoy's standby; he's never bothered by his need to think with his heart. 

And his dick, he admits. Both of these men have given him orgasms, but Jim took a year and Kirk took ten minutes. His hand is feather light, knows the shape of McCoy's face exactly. He stares like McCoy is something he'd lost a long time ago.

Kirk looks over to Jim, still holding McCoy's jaw. "You get a water ration in this pathetic excuse for a universe?"

Jim waves at the bathroom limply.

Kirk pulls McCoy to his feet, wraps an arm around his waist when his legs refuse to cooperate. It's all he can do to stay upright as Kirk leads him, like his vertebrae have melted into each other. McCoy reaches out to brace himself against the wall of the shower and finds Kirk in front of him, watching. It's déjà vu and something different, Kirk leans in like Jim had a year ago, pauses where Jim hadn't. McCoy feels skinned, slurs, "Cat got your tongue?"

"One day I'm gonna fuck you quiet." He cuts off McCoy's reply with fingers digging blissfully into his back, into the tense base of his spine, sends him spiraling deeper into exhaustion. McCoy sags in his arms, lets himself be soaped and not quite gently scrubbed, feels Kirk's words rumble in his chest more than he hears them, "It could be like this every night. I'd keep you locked in my room, tied to the fucking bed where you belong. You fucking love it, McCoy, don't you? Being the captain's bitch? I'd have you begging for my cock every day, parade you around the ship, naked like you are now, dripping come, just so everyone would know you're mine, that I fuck you like you need—and you _need_ it, don't you, you fucking _love_ this, _shit_."

McCoy can't muster a retort, half-asleep and sore and overwhelmed and, in that tiny, helpless part of him that's still fizzling, ferociously turned on. He lets himself be dragged out of the shower, chuckles tiredly as Kirk towels him down. He’s still laughing when Jim bursts through the door, sagging but wary. His hands on McCoy are assessing, eyes worried. "Still with me, Bones?"

McCoy pushes at his head affectionately, reassures him, "Idiot." 

Then he turns to Kirk, gruff with exhaustion and maybe a little embarrassment. "Thanks."

Kirk tilts his head, and then runs his thumb along McCoy's lower lip, tracing a smile onto his face. "It looks good on you."

Jim interrupts before McCoy can reply. "Leave. Now."

"No reason to dawdle." Kirk smirks as the door opens. "I got what I wanted."

"No," Jim says flatly as it closes. "You didn't."

The last McCoy sees of Kirk is his smirk losing all its humor. The door clicks closed decisively, and in the rippling silence that follows Jim stares at it, his profile rigid, his every breath expelled like he's been punched.

"Jim." He wonders if Jim will assume the roughness in his voice is just from sex.

"I waited a year."

McCoy pulls Jim close, struggles to keep his eyes open. Under the weight of his drooping eyelashes Jim looks blurred, softer. 

He's staring very fixedly at McCoy's nose as he continues, "Four years. Why didn't you say anything?"

"You stole my shirts and alcohol for three years straight. I figured if you wanted it, you'd take it."

Jim sighs away, drops his head against McCoy's shoulder as the tension leaves him. McCoy pets him absently until, "I can't believe he got to fuck you first."

McCoy huffs tiredly. "I thought it was you."

"I can't believe that either. He's nothing like me."

McCoy is silent for a long time, thinks of the rough slide of Kirk's thumb against his lips as he traced a smile there. "I'm sure he'd agree."


End file.
